Breathe Me || Completed

14.0 - New Hampshire

I expect Samantha to dive out of the booth and tackle me in an embrace when she sees me, but she doesn't do that. She glances up and then looks back down and continues to pick at her dirty nails.

It's a struggle for me to keep myself from smothering her with affection. I feel like we are long lost lovers although, I suppose she's right: our last kiss was only two days ago.

But it feels like years have passed. I sit down on her side of the booth and hold out a hand to her. She allows me to hold her cracked, ashy fingers and press her knuckles to my chapped lips. I hold her hand to my mouth for as long as she lets me, which is about ten seconds.

"Stop it, Sally," she says, eyes dropping back to her nails. Her voice is soft and tired.

I can't help reaching up to stroke her feathery blonde hair. I feel light as a balloon, free as an uncaged bird. I couldn't be happier to have her next to me. Why doesn't she feel the same? She lets me comb through her hair, though. She lets me tuck a lock of spun gold behind her ear, rubbing my thumb over her cool, pliable cartilage. "Sammy," I say, a smile emerging on my lips. "We did it. We ran away."

She tries not to, but she grins too. Finally, she looks up at me, blue eyes puffy with fatigue. "We did," she says. Her eyes flutter away.

"Sam. Look at me. Hey." She won't. "Samantha, I'm here. I found you."

Samantha leans away from my touch. "And how do I know that you're here to stay?"

"Sammy, there's no turning back now. I . . . I realized that you were right. I can't just say I love you and then never do anything. I want you to know, to believe me. This here? This is me saying I love you." She's smiling to herself, scratching at the plasticky surface of the table. "Can I kiss you?"

She relents, finally, and we sink into each other for a moment, Samantha pressed up against the sticky tiled wall of the diner in our booth. The ice in my heart melts and the shivers of loneliness and fear disperse into warm, gentle streaks of calm. I slip further and further into the coma of her love until Samantha opens her eyes and gently pulls my face away from hers, clearing her throat. "Hi," she says.

I turn around to see that the waitress is standing at our table, staring at us. She's a teenager, not more than seventeen, with honey blonde hair and a nose ring. Discount Samantha, I think to myself. I turn around and clear my throat as well. I wish I could stare defiantly at her like Samantha does, but I can't help the blush creeping up my neck like a spreading infection.

"Um, hi," says the girl. Her name tag says Carly. "Can I, uh, get you guys something to drink?"

Samantha wraps her arms around my shoulder and kisses my burning red ear. "What do you want, babydoll?" she asks. What is she doing?

"I'll just have some water," I squeak.

"I'll have a coffee," says Samantha.

Carly nods and writes our orders on her notepad, looking glad to leave when she scoots away back to the kitchen.

The moment she's out of earshot, I shove Samantha's arm. "What was that?" I ask.

She grins at me. "We're in fucking New Hampshire, Sally," she says. "We're never gonna see any of these people again. We can do whatever we want. We can be us. It doesn't matter."

I feel the redness draining from my cheeks as she leans in to wrap me back in her strong, bony arms. I rest my forehead against her shoulder and hug her back. She's right, of course: who cares if Carly is judging us? Carly is a temporary fixture in our lives. Everything, I realize, from now on will be a temporary fixture for us. Except for each other. I cling to her like a frightened kitten to a tree limb.

Carly brings Samantha her coffee and pours my water out of a plastic pitcher. I am sitting in Samantha's lap by then, giggling to myself at the absurdity of it. We order our food -- a grilled cheese to share -- and Carly escapes again.

For the first time since I arrived here, though, fear is tapping on my front door. A police car passes in the window -- are they here for us? Is this it? Is Samantha going to be torn away from me again? I can't help thinking of my phone shut up in my nightstand. Is my mother bombarding me with calls and text messages yet? Has she realized I'm gone? And if not, when will she?

Perhaps she hasn't. Hopefully, she thinks I'm having dinner at Ryann's house right now. With any luck, she won't realize I'm not in Stone Harbor until tomorrow morning when I don't come home.

But for now, we are safe and warm inside of Flora's Diner in New Hampshire, together, together, together.

Samantha sighs at her coffee cup. "Well now that you're here," she says. "There are some things we never discussed. Because you weren't going to come."

"Like what?"

"Well . . . like sleeping arrangements and how much money we have, that sort of stuff. I think now's as good a time as any."

"Alright." I slide out of her lap and take a sip of ice cold water. It trickles down my throat, sweet and perfect as ambrosia in my mouth after my twenty-hour walk. Every muscle aches, I am starting to realize. My blisters seem to tap me on the shoulder: hey, look at us, we're right here. There are cramps in my feet and my abdomen and hips burn with a constant, pulsing pain.

Samantha considers the bitter-smelling steam rising from her cup. "So, on the money front," she says. "I brought with me seven hundred thirty-five dollars. I have . . ." She reaches into her backpack on the floor. "A log for what we spend. So far for me, I bought a bottle of water at a gas station for $1.15, then this cup of coffee was $1.50. And that sandwich we ordered was $6.75 That's all." Her log is a little red memo book, much like the one Carly used to write down our orders. "How about you?" she asks.

"Hmm..." I think back on my journey to get here. "Actually, I was so focused on finding you before seven that I didn't stop at all. I just ate the food I packed. And I think the water is free. I actually brought my savings with me -- it's one hundred and twenty-five dollars, plus some change."

"Cool," says Samantha.

I look her over, hunched toward the notebook like a malevolent villain in a movie, plotting her next evil exploit. "Sam?"

"Yeah?"

"Were you really going to leave at seven?"

Samantha scribbles something in her notebook, decidedly not looking at me. She shrugs. "I hadn't really decided."